


On the Way to Willoughby

by LemonSupreme



Series: Deleted Scenes [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scenes, Sexual Tension, betweeen Pottsboro and Willoughby, the brand - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 17:17:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4445033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonSupreme/pseuds/LemonSupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackout Charloe/Part One in my “Deleted Scenes” series of canon-compliant one-shots that support the Charloe pairing while keeping true to the series.  This installment fills in some ‘blanks’ regarding the miles between Pottsboro and Willoughby.  Here's my take on what might have transpired on the road. </p><p>Note: This one is for WildIrish. Happy Belated Birthday my dear. Hope you enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Way to Willoughby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wildirish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildirish/gifts).



* * *

Roughly four hundred miles stretch between New Vegas and Willoughby, but that's as the crow flies. In a world without power or maintained highways, those miles can almost double if you are not, in fact, a crow.

For Bass Monroe and Charlie Matheson the first one hundred miles are full of bounty hunters and anger and swimming pools, running and of course a bar full of dead wannabe rapists.

It was there in that shitty bar where everything started to change between them. Monroe had saved her even though he didn't have to. Charlie figures that it was probably for what she knows more than who she is, but the fact that he saved her at all makes the miles at his side a little easier to bear from then on out.

With thoughts of wanted posters on her mind, and a begrudging thankfulness in her heart; she is taking Monroe to Miles and her mother.

Somewhere along the dusty roads after Pottsboro is where things between them shift again. The silences became more comfortable. The conversations became less angry. The occasional glances they share become more…confusing.

* * *

**Three hundred miles to Willoughby**

They arrive in another shitty little town (much like all the ones before it) and they agree it's time to spend the night in real beds. Neither has any desire to share one, but their plan changes as soon as they catch a glimpse of the four good old boys in khaki standing at the check in counter of the old rooming house.

Monroe acts quickly, pulling Charlie close and whispering in her ear, "Play along and maybe I won't spend the evening swinging from a rope." His mouth is on her neck and his stubble burns a path down her throat.

Charlie's gut instinct is to knee this presumptuous former President directly in the balls, but there is a truth to his words and she's not stupid. So she plays along, wrapping her arms around his back and nuzzling against his neck. She feels his body tense with surprise. He must have been expecting that knee to the groin as well.

The Patriots finish signing the book and then they head to their rooms, laughing at the horny couple in the foyer who just can't wait to get checked in. Monroe doesn't stop kissing her until the laughter has died away.

She tries to pretend that she's turned on by the danger, and not by Monroe's silky lips, rough beard and expert kisses. The problem is, Charlie never was good at pretending.

They share a room that night. They do it to keep up the pretense but also because there is only the one room available. They don't touch again even though they share a bed. They also don't talk, both feeling a new awkwardness that had not existed between them before.

She waits until she hears his soft snores echoing off the walls before she slides her fingers inside soaked panties. She doesn't even try to pretend she's not thinking about Monroe as she rubs her throbbing clit to completion.

* * *

**Two hundred miles to Willoughby**

They briefly talk about ditching the wagon and going on foot for the remainder of their journey. Good roads are scarce and they certainly don't lie in a straight line through Texas. In the end, they stick with the wagon even if it means a longer trip as they navigate to find sturdy bridges and passable roads. The truth is they'd make much better time on horseback, but they both like the wagon.

The sun is beating down on the travelers as they slowly work their way east and south. They are arguing again, as has become the norm. Monroe is trying to make a point (something about Civil War strategy – as if she cares), when there is a loud crack and the wagon lurches to an abrupt halt. Cursing, he jumps down to deal with the uneasy horses.

While he's taking care of the livestock, Charlie inspects the wagon. "Broken axel," She says with a frown. "We're screwed."

He glowers at her and kneels down to verify the damage for himself. "Broken axel," he mutters.

Charlie stands and crosses her arms. "That's what I said."

He ignores her completely and gets to work. He gathers some flat stones from a nearby stream, a coil of rusty wire and a long piece of metal from an abandoned barn not far away. At first Charlie isn't sure what he's doing, but then she realizes he's planning to jack up the front of the wagon to repair the axel himself.

"Do you know what you're doing?" She asks.

"Not my first rodeo, Charlie. I can patch it up enough to get us to the next town. Now make yourself useful. Empty the wagon."

She almost refuses to help but she wants this damn wagon fixed as much as he does. Not only is it more comfortable than riding a horse for days; it has offered them shelter when the weather turned bad and they had nowhere to go.

They work in silence under a grueling midday sun. Charlie finally lugs the last box of random bounty hunter crap from the wagon and goes around the side to check on Monroe's progress.

She stops short. Monroe has taken off his shirt and his sweaty skin glistens as he works with a heavy log chain. She tries to look away, but she just can't. Obviously she knew he's in good shape, but this…. This is more than she'd bargained for. He is lean with ropey muscles that bunch and move under tight tan skin. His body is a work of art. She licks her lips as she watches him doing whatever it is he's doing. He stills and her eyes travel to his face.

He's watching her, his expression unreadable. She turns away to face the odd assortment of things he's collected for the repair job. "What is that stuff?" She tries to sound bored. The last thing Monroe needs to know is the effect his naked torso is having on her libido.

"I made a jack, sort of. You'll have to help me when it's time, but we should be able to move the front end of the wagon high enough that the wheels will be free. Then I can work on the axel."

"You can fix the axel with that stuff?" She motions to the assortment of seemingly random crap that he's assembled.

He shrugs and gives her an uncharacteristic grin. His teeth are glaringly white in his tan face and she finds her gaze drawn to the way the skin around his eyes crinkles as he smiles. "Just call me MacGyver."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Can you help? I think I'm ready."

"Yeah."

They work in silence other than the occasional barked order from Monroe. Charlie chooses not to argue at all, doing as he asks. An hour passes and Monroe is intent on his task. Charlie lies at his side under the wagon. Her job is to hand him tools or odd pieces of metal or whatever else he asks for while he works his magic to splint the axel. She is not sure his plan is viable at all, but she has agreed to help, so help is what she does.

When a wire that Monroe has been wrapping around the splint snaps, Charlie sees the blood on his arm and worry gnaws at her gut. "You okay?" She asks.

"Probably. Get me something to wrap it. I'll tend to it properly when we're done here."

It is dark under the wagon, but she can see the gouge in his arm where the wire had sliced through his flesh. Blood is seeping. He'll need stitches, but he's right. They need to get this done. She wriggles out from under the wagon and grabs a rag from one of the boxes she'd removed earlier from inside.

Later, she helps him clean and stitch the wound at the stream after he's taken a quick bath in the cool running water. He still hasn't put his shirt on and Charlie makes a point to keep her eyes focused on her needlework rather than his perfect pecs and chiseled abs. When she's done sewing him up, she slathers on some thick ointment that smells of oregano. She wraps his arm in a long strip of clean cotton.

"Where did that come from?" he asks gruffly, nodding at the cotton.

Charlie doesn't look up from her work. "One of my shirts. It was just about the only clean thing we had left."

"I'll buy you a new one," he says.

"Don't have to."

With his good hand, he reaches forward and grasps her forearm firmly. She looks up and their eyes lock. "I know you think I'm a bastard. You're not wrong – except when you are. This time you're wrong. I'll buy you a new shirt. It's the least I can do."

Charlie is lost in his gaze and says the first thing that pops into her head, "I want a blue one."

"Blue, it is." He smiles and his hand slides down her forearm. The smile fades when he feels the raised flesh of her brand. He's noticed it before. It is, after all, not the kind of thing he would ever miss. "How did you get this?"

She tries to pull her arm away, but his grip is iron tight. Slowly he turns her arm so that he can see the M which has been burned into her flesh.

Haltingly, Charlie tells him her story. She tells him about the kids who lived without adult supervision, the missing boy, the conscription ship and the pain of the burn. She looks away, not able to take the intensity of his stare any longer.

"I'm sorry." He says. His voice is raw with unexpected emotion and sincerity. She looks up sharply and sees his eyes are wet. He traces the M slowly with his thumb, lost in thought. "If I'd known that you were there, this wouldn't have happened."

"Bullshit," Charlie says, anger rising. "This was the norm. I was one of hundreds, maybe thousands. Don't tell me I would have been treated any differently." She jerks her hand from his grasp.

"Trust me, Charlie." His voice is low and grim. "If I'd known this had happened to YOU, I'd have personally sliced open every last man on that ship and watched as their intestines pooled at their feet."

Charlie feels a shudder, "Ah, there's the General we all know and loathe."

Monroe stands. "Don't act so high and mighty. You would do the same for your people. So would Miles. Hell, who do you think taught me how to gut a man like a pig?"

Charlie stands as well, and is surprised to see just how close they have gravitated. She doesn't move away, unwilling to show weakness. "You are not my people." She doesn't acknowledge the topic of Miles and his violent history. She knows that Monroe wasn't alone, but she hates to be reminded of her uncle's role in the Republic.

He shrugs, "I know you don't think of me as part of your family, but you are part of mine. Anyone who matters to Miles, matters to me." He pauses thoughtfully and tilts his head, "Except for your Mom. No offence kid, but she can rot in hell." Then he starts to walk away.

"Thought you wanted to see her?"

"Your Mom?" He laughs but there is no joy in it. "No, I want to see Miles. I just know he will be with her. He never could resist that woman. As for me, if I never see that bitch again as long as I live, it will be too soon."

As he walks back toward the wagon, she watches him. He doesn't turn but yells over his shoulder, "Keep looking at me like that Charlie, and I'll be forced to stop pretending I'm asleep while you masturbate at night. Hell, I might even feel obligated to help you out. A man can only take so much."

* * *

**One hundred miles to Willoughby**

The wagon bumps along a dusty stretch of cracked highway, the axel was fixed days ago by a toothless guy who lived in an old doughnut shop. They've made good time since, so they decide to take a break from the road.

It is in the small town of Arnette where they park their tired asses on worn vinyl barstools and order jars of the local specialty: grain alcohol. They are sitting side by side, not touching or talking. They've talked enough these last few weeks. The bar is busy and a decent classic rock band is jamming in one corner.

Charlie is staring into her drink, her mind far away when a meaty hand rests on her shoulder. She stiffens and notices out of the corner of her eye as Monroe does the same. Charlie glances over her shoulder to see a big guy with a recently broken nose and a receding hairline.

He smiles drunkenly, "Wanna dance, pretty lady?"

Charlie smirks, "Not with you, no." She turns back to her drink, but the big guy isn't good at taking a hint.

He squeezes her shoulder hard enough that she winces. "Let's dance."

Monroe is on his feet in a heartbeat. His voice sounds friendly but his eyes promise certain death, "She's with me. She only dances with me."

The big guy furrows his brow and his bottom lip pokes out in a childish pout, but he seems to understand that Monroe means business. He turns and leans against a far wall, his gaze never leaving Charlie at the bar.

The bartender is an old lady with a long white ponytail. She wanders over and frowns, "Word of advice. You said she dances with you. He's going to watch until he sees that's the case. If he thinks you were lying, he'll make trouble."

Bass doesn't bother looking up, "I'm not afraid of trouble."

She sighs, "Maybe you should be. That's Big Jim. His dad is a bastard Patriot, and it's sheer luck on your part that he and his friends are too drunk to have recognized ya."

This gets Monroe's attention. "Don't know what you're talking about, lady. My name is Luke Spencer. This is my wife, Laura."

The old lady lets out a laugh loud enough to get the attention of everyone in the bar, "This ain't General Hospital, and you my dear, are no Luke Spencer."

"It was worth a shot," Bass says with a shrug. "If you know who I am, why are you trying to help us?"

"Oh, I know exactly who you are, Mr. President." Her voice is now just a whisper. "Listen, I was never a big fan of the Republic, but these Patriots are worse than you ever thought of being. Just go dance. Big Jim will see that she's truly spoken for and he'll focus his attention elsewhere."

Monroe stands and puts his hand on Charlie's shoulder. "All right, pretty lady," he uses a passable Big Jim impression. "Let's dance."

Charlie smirks and looks away, not willing to let Monroe see just how much the thought of dancing with him intrigues her. She lets him take her hand and lead her to the floor. The space is already crowded with couples swaying to a song Charlie doesn't know. Monroe pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She follows suit, twining her fingers at the nape of his neck. His body is firm and warm and he moves with a liquid grace that is startlingly erotic. The alcohol is coursing through her veins and she can't help herself. She presses her body closer still. Her breasts are now almost flattened against his chest, but all she can think is that she wishes she could be closer. He swings her around gently and the move is so perfect, she sighs, "You dance like you fight."

Monroe stiffens and she can see the surprise on his face. The surprise is quickly replaced by something else and Charlie closes her eyes, praying he didn't really hear her. Stupid grain alcohol.

He heard. "Oh?" his lips brush softly against her ear, "And how do I fight?"

Charlie realizes there is no backpedaling away from this. "Like you were born to do it. You fight like your whole body is a tool you can use to pummel the other guy into the dirt…"

He raises an eyebrow, "You feeling pummeled right now?"

"No. I just meant…" Charlie loses focus as Monroe's hand drops to cup her ass. "I just meant you dance with the same intensity." She stops talking, burying her face against his chest, totally and utterly embarrassed. She swears silently not to ever drink again.

"Dancing isn't all I do with intensity." He bites the shell of her ear unexpectedly and she groans in spite of trying hard not to. Monroe squeezes the ass cheek he's been fondling, and uses his other hand to rub gentle circles against her lower back.

Charlie runs her fingers through the curls at his nape and feels his response – hard and thick against her belly. "Monroe?"

"Yeah?"

"Looks like Big Jim is gone."

"Who the fuck is Big Jim?" he asks with a growl before moving to suck at the flesh below her ear. Charlie's core quivers at the feel of his tongue and lips on her neck.

Even though a part of her (the throbbing part between her legs) wants this to continue, she knows they need to move, "We have to go."

He sighs unhappily, "You're right. We should go," He pulls her to the bar where the old bartender is waiting.

"Can we get a room upstairs?" Monroe asks, pulling a small pouch from his pocket.

She nods, handing them a key. "Figured you'd need this after watching you two dance. I guess you weren't lying about being together after all."

Monroe makes a non-committal grunting noise and pulls Charlie up the stairs. They find their door and Monroe unlocks it quickly. No sooner has he ushered her inside, than she is pushed against the closed door with his mouth crashing down on hers.

The kiss is bruising and predatory. Charlie has never felt consumed by a kiss before, but she does now. He uses his teeth to bite at her lips. He strokes them with his tongue before plunging it through to explore and learn her mouth. His hands are everywhere at once and Charlie can't even catch up, but oh does she try. She responds to his every move with one of her own, touching him and pressing against his body as she responds to the kiss.

There is a loud sound outside and this is the thing that breaks the spell. They are both breathing raggedly when Monroe presses his forehead against hers. "I got carried away." It's not an apology, just a fact.

She nods, "We both did. We need to stop, though. I can't do this."

He sighs, not terribly surprised. "Okay."

They move to opposite corners to get ready for bed without looking at each other. As the night deepens, only a sliver of moonlight offers any light. Side by side on their backs, they both stare at the shadowy ceiling. Finally Charlie speaks, "Do you really pretend to be asleep so that I can…"

"Yeah." His voice is rough and raspy.

"Then what?"

"Then I wait till you're asleep and I do the same thing."

This surprises her, "Really?"

Monroe closes his eyes, "After I hear you do that, I can't… After I hear you and smell you so close to me… I can't not do it. It's like a knee-jerk reaction, but with my dick."

She's silent for a long time, and he's afraid he's told her too much. His eyes fly open when he hears the familiar sound of fingers stroking against slippery flesh. "Charlie?" there's a desperate undercurrent to his voice now. "What are you doing?"

"I think you know." She sounds slightly winded. He can hear the way her fingers slide against and through her folds and he grasps handfuls of the sheet he lies on as a reminder not to roll over on top of her and replace those fingers with his cock.

"And you want me to do what?" he chokes out.

"I want you to touch yourself. For me."

"I thought you didn't want to…"

"I can't fuck you. I can't fuck Sebastian Monroe. I just can't, but for some reason I want to. Since I can't, this seems like the next best thing."

"So you can't fuck me, but you can fuck yourself while in bed with me while I'm also…"

"Yeah."

"Oh hell." Monroe needs no further encouragement. He reaches for his waistband, and shoves his sleep pants down his thighs. In mere moments, his cock is fully engorged once again as he recalls the make out session from before and soaks up the knowledge of what is happening less than a foot away.

The room fills with the sounds of their breathing and the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. She feels her body cresting and without planning to, she looks his way. It is in this moment that he does the same and their eyes meet and hold in the shimmer of moonlight.

As climax nears, they find that they simply cannot look away from each other. Monroe is the first to make a move, taking his free hand which lies between them, to reach for hers.

Monroe and Charlie firmly grasp at each other's fingers as the world shatters around them in the form of dual orgasms. They both let out a deep shaky breath afterwards. Neither speaks. Neither moves.

They are still holding hands as they drift off to sleep.

* * *

**Fifty miles to Willoughby**

They have parked the wagon in a copse of trees, and are making their way through a dense forest in hopes of catching some dinner when they spot a group of Patriots driving by in a short caravan of horse drawn wagons.

"That's the third Patriot squad we've spotted this week. Why are there so many of them down here?" Monroe is mostly talking to himself, and isn't surprised when Charlie doesn't answer.

"And where are they getting all these guns? They look new, but they're obviously pre-blackout." This time when she says nothing, he turns to see what's wrong.

Something is definitely wrong. Charlie is being held tight to the chest of a Patriot and the asshole has a gun to her head. Monroe takes a tentative step forward, his pulse racing. "Hey man, what's going on? Laura, are you okay?"

She doesn't answer except with her eyes. She tells him in a micro second all he needs to know. The idiot behind her is grinning, "Laura? That's your name? Well, Laura, you are one fine little piece of ass and after I kill your old man, I'm gonna bury my dick in every one of your holes. It's gonna be sublime."

"First of all, no. You won't be burying anything in her, you dumb piece of shit. Secondly, you know the word 'sublime'?" Monroe feigns surprise.

The Patriot narrows his eyes and glares at Monroe. Clearly he is not a fan of having his intelligence insulted, "Shut up, asshole." He mutters.

"Well, that's just not gonna happen either." Monroe answers, taking a step closer. The Patriot responds by turning his gun on Monroe. This is the opening Charlie needs. She grabs for the knife that the idiot hadn't bothered to relieve her of, and shoves it deep into his thigh.

The Patriot cries out and lets go of Charlie, but swings his gun wildly in her direction. He's caressing the trigger when Monroe erases the space between them, dragging his sword across the Patriot's neck. Blood spurts all over both Charlie and Monroe as the lifeless body of the Patriot falls.

Charlie walks over to Monroe and he pulls her close with one arm. From the other hand dangles the still bloody knife.

"Time we went off road," Bass says against her hair. "There's too many of these guys around lately." He can feel her shaking slightly and he presses a quick kiss to her temple. "He was a dead man as soon as he touched you. You know that, right? I wasn't going to let him…" Monroe takes in a deep breath, "I won't let anyone hurt you."

"I know." She moves out of his embrace and they stand there staring into each other's eyes for a while. Finally she says, "Let's find somewhere to clean up."

That night they sleep outdoors. The air is too stifling to sleep inside the wagon, so they put their bedrolls underneath. It's not the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but it's safer than a lot of their other options.

When Charlie wakes the next morning, it is to the feeling of intense sexual arousal. "Holy hell," she thinks as she realizes that she's got a hand in her panties – a hand that is not hers.

On several occasions Charlie and Monroe have repeated that first side by side masturbation session. Lately, Monroe had grown impatient, wanting more. Eventually he has started taking over for her, touching and stroking her until she thinks she might die. He loves to fuck her with his fingers until she breaks apart around him.

They never talk about it. It is just something that happens. The truth is it happens a lot.

This sexy wake up call, though….this is new. Charlie bites her lip, using every shred of willpower she has to stop herself from rolling her hips against the fingers Monroe has planted in her pussy. She looks at him and is shocked to see he is still fast asleep. He looks younger when he slumbers – less oppressed by his life choices. But even in sleep, he knows how to touch her and she begins to writhe against his fingers, seeking that perfect friction she craves.

She throws her head back, eyes closed as the tension coils within and her body tightens. She feels every muscle quivering just before she shudders over the precipice into sweet release. "God damn," Charlie whispers, one arm thrown over her closed eyes.

They pop open as the fingers are slowly removed from her panties. She looks at Monroe. He is wide awake and completely aware. Judging by the size of his pupils, he's also more than a little turned on.

"Good morning," he says his voice husky with sleep.

"Good morning," Charlie replies.

* * *

**Ten Miles to Willoughby**

They both see the battered old road sign, but neither of them mentions it. They've both been tense for days. Willoughby hangs over their heads like a death sentence. They are both worried about what kind of reception they will receive. He's worried about Miles. She's worried about Rachel.

They don't say it out loud, but they are both worried about one other thing. Whatever this is that has developed between them will end when they enter the town's gates. Nothing will be the same. The bubble they've lived in all these weeks will pop and only memories will remain.

"I'm going to miss this, I think." She's staring straight ahead.

"Think I might miss it too," he says.

"I wish everything wasn't so complicated. There's so much history that makes anything between us…"

"Totally fucked up?"

"Yeah."

They ride for a while longer before Charlie speaks again, "Who were Luke and Laura?"

He glances her way and lets out a slow breath, "They were a very popular couple on a soap opera – a television show. It was a long time before the blackout. Theirs was not your usual love story."

"Why?"

Monroe pauses, "He did things. Bad things. He did these unforgivable things and she should have never forgiven him in a million years."

"But she did?"

"She did."

Charlie is quiet again for a while. She eventually straightens her shoulders and turns to him, "Pull over." She says.

"Here?"

"Yeah, here."

He does as she asks, finding a narrow dirt path which they follow back to a clearing. In the center of the clearing is the burnt our remains of an old house. Off to one side is a barn with peeling red paint.

"Why did we stop?" He asks, genuinely curious.

"I want –" she hesitates, not sure how to proceed.

"What? You want what?"

"You." She steals a glance in his direction and can tell she's caught his interest.

"But?"

"I can't fuck Sebastian Monroe. I just can't."

"Jesus, Charlie. This again? You brought me to a secluded field so that you could tell me you can't fuck me? Classy move."

"No. You don't understand."

"Please tell me how I am misunderstanding that you want to fuck me, but can't possibly do it?"

"I can't fuck Monroe." She watches as his brow furrows and his lips flatten into a thin line. "But I could maybe be with Luke."

"What?" He isn't getting it at first.

"What if instead of two people with a crazy mixed up past and a huge age difference and family members who hate the very idea of us together in any way…"

"Yeah?"

"What if instead, we were just two people traveling together? Two people who both want the same thing? Two people who are aching for something more even if it can only ever be temporary?"

"So, what are you saying?" Bass feels his heart beat skip to a faster rhythm and blood begins to pump southward.

"What if out here – outside the walls of Willougby, we are not Monroe and Charlotte? What if out here, we are Luke and Laura?"

Bass looks pained and unsure, "Charlie, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying there's a nice old barn over there. Maybe we could find some clean hay or something to lay our bedrolls on and maybe…" She pauses as Monroe flicks the reins to get the horses moving. "Where are we going?" she asks.

"The barn, Laura. We're going to the barn."

* * *

Later, nestled on top of the blankets they've spread across straw in the barn; he hovers over her body. Trailing kisses down her throat, he moves to rest between her thighs. She opens for him, finally and completely. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she arches into his body, begging without words for him to fill her.

He readies at her entrance, but hesitates, "Open your eyes."

She obliges, and the need he sees there is palpable. "Mmmm?"

"Who am I?" he asks, pressing the flared head of his cock against her slippery center.

"Luke," she says, breathless.

"No."

"But you agreed?" She tilts her pelvis against him, urging him deeper.

He grits his teeth, "Changed my mind."

"You can't do that," she pleads. "Not now."

"Who am I?" he asks again, his voice harsh with need.

"Why are you doing this now?"

His eyes bore into hers, "When we are in Willoughby you can tell anyone who asks that I never touched you. You can say my name is Luke if it makes you feel better. You can forget about me THEN…"

She whimpers against his throat but doesn't answer.

"You can pretend there and then. You can't pretend here." He kisses her harshly before repeating his question in a whisper, "Who am I?"

"Bass. You are Bass.

And that is all he needs to hear.

To be continued....

* * *

**A/N Comments are always welcome. Please tell me what you think.**

**Special thanks to LadyHawke and Ice for reading in advance and providing feedback.**


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